


The Principali-tea Protocol

by theinkwell33



Series: The Cryptid Chronicles [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale develops a reputation at the local tea shop, Comfort, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Fluff, For Tea, Gen, Humor, M/M, Miracles, POV Outsider, Post-Apocalypse, Requited Love, and other things, they all think hes' a cryptid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 12:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20470724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinkwell33/pseuds/theinkwell33
Summary: Mr. Zhang knows many things. He knows the proper temperature to steep every tea for maximum flavor, he knows how to blend spices to make chai the perfect balance of peppery and sweet, and he knows how to run a tea shop. He does not, however, know how to do business with an angel. He just does his best.Or, the fic where Aziraphale's habits at the local tea shop raise some questions. If the tea shop owner thinks their best customer probably a supernatural being, that is only confirmed when he meets Crowley.





	The Principali-tea Protocol

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a day as part of a live write session. Hope you enjoy!

The man at the counter is always prepared for Mr. Aziraphale to walk in. 

It happens frequently enough that Mr. Zhang trains all his staff to be accommodating to this man, but Mr. Zhang is usually in charge of the tea shop when the angel in white makes his appearance. At least, that is what everyone assumes he is. There’s a good reason for this rationale. We’ll get to that.

Mr. Aziraphale is no ordinary customer. For one thing, he is always wearing the same outfit. Mr. Zhang has been managing his shop for almost twenty years now, and ever since he first met the man, he has been clothed in a strange, anachronistic combination of a waistcoat, jacket, and trousers. Everything is faded and worn at the knees and elbows, as though it has been around for centuries. Mr. Zhang wonders if Mr. Aziraphale pays extra for his clothes to be artistically distressed in such a manner. Or if he has multiple of the same pieces, and pays to have them all worn in the exact same pattern.

There is a bet, however, between the two weekend employees, that Mr. Aziraphale only wears the one set of clothes, and that he obtained them centuries ago in an aristocratic flight of fancy, because he is an ancient cryptid.

If this wasn’t Soho, Mr. Zhang would roll his eyes and think this was outrageous. But he’s been here for decades, and this is one of those places where You See Some Stuff.

If it was just Mr. Aziraphale’s odd fashion sense, Mr. Zhang would write off the behavior as perhaps an impassioned cosplayer or one of those performance art pieces.

But no.

For instance, odd things happen when Mr. Aziraphale is in the shop. If it’s raining outside, which happens often, as soon as Mr. Aziraphale enters to select his favorite loose leaf tea, the rain clears up. In London. In autumn. Even if it’s been raining for days, it will cease without fail as soon as this man comes in. Sunbeams have been said to have burst through slate grey clouds, and once, Alp, the Tuesday morning shift manager, noted with considerable distress that a flock of pure white doves sailed past the window leaving a trail of glitter behind them.

Mr. Zhang does not think the glitter was real, but at this point, he’d believe the doves.

Mr. Aziraphale selects his tea with the ease of someone who has been around long enough to know what he likes and what he does not. He will not hear of the new-age teas that have all sorts of strange ingredients (he refers to them as “froufrou”), but he becomes quite disappointed when they are out of his favorite kind of Lady Grey.

At this juncture, it should be noted that Mr. Zhang now militantly stocks their bins with enough Lady Grey that they never run out. But before, when Mr. Aziraphale was relatively unknown to him and was just another customer, they did run out. Once. And Mr. Aziraphale just smiled sadly, blinked, and shook out his loose white curls. He moved ever so slightly to stand framed in a miraculous sunbeam halo, and asked Mr. Zhang, if he would be ever so kind, to just check the back once again, in case he might possibly be mistaken.

Mr. Zhang had gone to the back, flicked on the light, and walked over to the bin holding the Lady Grey. When he opened it, the bin was so full that it nearly spilled the dry leaves all over the concrete floor.

It had absolutely been empty before. He knew that as a fact. And yet.

He spent some time at a religious boarding school as a boy, and knew enough about multiplying of loaves and water to wine and Noah’s ark and the dove with an olive branch to make some Assumptions.

Once he’d made up Mr. Aziraphale’s order with bewildered relief, and seen the customer out the door (after which it promptly began to pour rain again), Mr. Zhang was properly convinced. Mr. Aziraphale was an angel. Or some kind of elevated being.

Mr. Zhang knows many things. He knows the proper temperature to steep every tea for maximum flavor, he knows how to blend spices to make chai the perfect balance of peppery and sweet, and he knows how to run a tea shop.

He does not, however, know how to do business with an angel. He just does his best.

There are days when Mr. Zhang is out of the shop. He takes his seventeen year old son down to the coast on some weekends, where they fish and take the old boat out to watch the sunsets. He goes to the dentist. He visits his wife’s grave.

On the days when he is not running the tea shop, he leaves detailed instructions with his substitute. It’s usually Priyanka1 , who is getting her degree from King’s College London in something like film studies, though Mr. Zhang can never quite recall.

> 1 Priyanka has only met Mr. Aziraphale once. She followed protocol according to Mr. Zhang’s instructions, and the angel gave her a soft handshake and a crinkled smile. The next week, she was awarded a surprise scholarship, met the love of her life, and her next month’s rent was mysteriously paid in some kind of odd banking fluke. Mr. Zhang can’t prove Mr. Aziraphale was the reason for these windfalls, but he certainly can believe it.

The protocol, as typed up on Mr. Zhang’s tiny PC and subsequently printed and laminated:

1\. Address the being with utmost politeness.  
2\. Compliment the being, welcome him, he is a regular customer.  
3\. Do not give any sign you are aware he is more than he seems. Treat him as another human being, but as though that human could do strange things to make your life lovely or miserable.  
4\. Provide him whatever teas he requests. If we are out, check again. We are not out. He’ll make sure of it. Do not ask him about this phenomenon.  
5\. Do not charge the being for any of the tea. Pretend to swipe his card. He does not pay here.  
6\. Thank him for his business, call him sir, and escort him to the door. You should not ask him any personal questions. You may answer if he asks you any.  
7\. Offer to carry his bags of tea. He will decline. That is fine.  
a. If he does not decline (this has only been known to happen twice), carry the bags to the bookshop he owns. Do not attempt to purchase any of his books in a misguided tit-for-tat situation. This will enrage him, and it will rain over our shop for weeks even if it’s sunny everywhere else.  
b. If he does not decline and does not go to the bookshop (this has only been known to happen once), he will get into the passenger seat of a ridiculous old black Bentley. DO NOT get into the car, even if the driver asks you if you’d like to join. Make any excuse. But do it politely. This driver cannot maneuver a car legally or safely. You are not an immortal or magical being and do not have the luxury of accepting his offer without fear of bodily harm.  
8\. Once the being is gone, document your experience, along with the subclass in step 7 you experienced, in the Book2 in the back closet. Write legibly. Yes, Alp, that means you.  
9\. Expect strange things to occur either in the shop, or in your own life, within the next week. The being makes things Happen, understand this but do not fear it. They are blessings.  


> 2The Book’s most recent entry from Priyanka reads: “Mr. Aziraphale, 19 May, 1 tin Lady Grey, 1 tin jasmine pearls, 1 experimental “froufrou” kind (chocolate toffee apple) trial tin. Same outfit as description. Interaction 7a, no books purchased. Let me meet his pet snake. Told him about uni and my breakup, because he asked. He gave me a hug (unusual, should we make a subsection 7c?) and told me he had to ‘get a wiggle on to meet a friend for dinner’ so I left. When I got back to the shop, the leaky faucet in the back was miraculously fixed.”

Today, Mr. Zhang is in the shop, and he is sunburned. He spent the weekend on the boat, lovingly named _The Dolphin_, and forgot to reapply sunscreen. The air around him is thick with the aloe he just applied to the back of his neck. The collar of his neatly pressed grey shirt sticks to him.

He’s expecting Mr. Aziraphale to make his appearance sometime this afternoon. It’s been two months, and at the rate he goes through jasmine pearls, he’s due for a refill. Has been for a while. But Mr. Zhang is worried something has befallen their angel bookkeeper.

The summer has passed without a sight of him. But that does not mean the summer was uneventful. Blood fell from the skies (and fish too), and there was a particularly perplexing incident regarding a towering inferno on the M25. Mr. Zhang has seen a lot of things in his fifty years of life, perhaps more than most given the clientele he caters to. But he’s never seen anything like that. And then, all of a sudden everything was back to normal. No krakens rising from the briny depths, no abnormal precipitation, no nuclear war. He wonders if Mr. Aziraphale has anything to do with it. And he would be right.

The shop bell chimes and Mr. Zhang looks up from his accounts notebook. It isn’t Mr. Aziraphale. It’s the driver of the Bentley.

Mr. Zhang grips the underside of the counter, suddenly nervous. He eyes the gleaming car on the outside street, which is blatantly parked on the sidewalk. Tourists have already started to gather around it, taking selfies with it as if it’s some kind of social stunt. Mr. Zhang does not know this man, but he knows what kind of man the newcomer probably is. If this is a man at all. He braces for the worst.

The man approaches the counter with what Mr. Zhang would call a saunter. He’s wearing all black, with a pair of dark sunglasses perched on his sharp nose. He picks up the laminated menu of tea selections with a long fingered hand.

“Mind if I?” he asks.

Mr. Zhang can only nod.

“Thanksss,” is the only response. It’s a few agonizing minutes before the man puts down the menu. “Okay, what d’you recommend?”

Mr. Zhang straightens and fidgets with the pen in his hand. “Depends, sir. Black, green, white, or herbal?”

“‘M looking for something for a friend. He comes in here a lot. I think he likes black tea? Maybe?”

“Do you mean Mr. Aziraphale, sir? I think you and I might have met, once, you were driving-”

“-right, right, ‘course,” nods the man. “I remember you. Didn’t realize. Erm. I’m Crowley. His...friend.” He does not hold out his hand, but the introduction is enough for Mr. Zhang.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Crowley. If you’re looking for something for Mr. Aziraphale, he prefers the Lady Grey, or the jasmine. That is, if you want to get his old favorites. He knows what he likes, and he is loyal to it.”

“He doesn’t like to try the new stuff, eh?”

“You sound like you already know the answer to that question, Mr. Crowley.”

They share a knowing smile. Mr. Zhang is finding he likes this man rather a lot more than he expected to. The aesthetic really threw him off, but that seems to be the point. Batesian mimicry.

“Then yeah, I want to get him something he’s for sure going to like. I don’t drink this stuff, so I dunno what he’d want.”

“I’ll prepare his regular order,” offers Mr. Zhang. He makes to go to the back, but something makes him pause.

“Mr. Crowley, is...he all right? He hasn’t been in all summer. We were worried something had happened to him.”

There is a sensitive pause. “Some things did happen,” Mr. Crowley says eventually. “To him and to me. But things are better now. We’re celebrating. And I’m taking him to dinner. But I didn’t want to show up at the bookshop empty-handed. So. Tea.”

Mr. Zhang doesn’t feel he should (or can) pry any more into this statement. “I’m delighted that Mr. Aziraphale is doing well, then. It is a relief.”

“Yeah, it seems like he gives you guys a lot of business.”

Eyes wide, he shakes his head no. “You misunderstand. We don’t charge him for any tea. He is welcome here. A friend. Always.”

Something in Mr. Crowley’s expression softens. His eyebrows slant upward. “Ah.”

“You must not tell him. We have a system. Protocol. It’s our way of showing respect.”

The man gives him a long look, then nods quietly.

Mr. Zhang arranges the order, hardly noticing that the prickling of his sunburn has vanished. He won't realize it's healed until later. For now, he sends Mr. Crowley on his way without much further discussion. He watches the Bentley, which has been ticketed already, drive off with the offending paper tossed from the dashboard to curl up on the pavement. 

He has a thought, about the kind of person who drives a car like that, who wears sunglasses indoors, who wears all black, who is all aesthetic and no bite, and who is probably the opposite to Mr. Aziraphale in every way.

He has a thought, about how funny it would be, if this was actually an angel and a demon, who buy tea and disregard parking tickets and make it stop raining…

But that would be ludicrous, he thinks, even though the sensible part of him, perhaps the romantic part of him, knows better.

If Mr. Zhang was a supernatural being, he might be aware of what takes place that afternoon in Aziraphale’s bookshop. He is not, but he has an imagination that is quite close to the truth.

It can be assumed that the Bentley is illegally parked in front of the bookshop, and it can be assumed that Crowley is leaning against the door, waiting for the angel to come out dressed for dinner at the Ritz. When Aziraphale finally does step out onto the stoop and lock the door behind him, he is dressed the same as ever. The fussy, antiquated waistcoat, the same sensible brown leather shoes.

They get to the Ritz, where a table has, naturally, come available at their favorite spot by the piano. Crowley hands Aziraphale the tin of tea when they sit down, and goes through the _you shouldn’t have / well, I did, so, yeah_ conversation with more patience than he thought possible.

It’s only when dinner arrives that the discussion gets interesting.

“Angel, what did you do to make that guy at the tea shop so frightened of you?”

“Frightened?” Aziraphale’s head snaps up, and he looks alarmed. “Oh, no, dear boy. Mr. Zhang couldn’t possibly be-”

“Oh, please, he was terrified. They have a ton of respect for you, but did you like...do some wedding at Cana thing to them or?”

The angel has the good sense to blush. “Well, there might have been a few miracles. Some good weather, maybe a few sudden windfalls…”

“Angel, they think you’re some kind of cryptid. Or they’re right on the money and think you’re a legitimate angel. The way he was looking at me, Mr. Zhang probably guessed what I was too.”

“I have never suggested,” begins Aziraphale, hands up in a placating gesture. "That's entirely-"

“You didn’t have to, you just had to be yourself.”  There’s a pause, and Crowley takes a sip of wine (for bravery) before he continues, “Not that there’s anything remotely wrong with that.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says primly, glancing down at his veal.

“They really love you, angel,” Crowley summarizes. “They were worried when you didn’t come in all summer.”

“They’re too kind,” Aziraphale sighs. “I should go visit them. I want to hear how dear Priyanka is doing. I want to be invited to her wedding.”

“I don’t think you need to worry,” smirks Crowley. “If you didn’t come back to the shop, I think Mr. Zhang would’ve put together a search party or something. You don’t just let someone like the Blessed Soho Cryptid slip through your fingers.”

“No,” chuckles Aziraphale, and raises his glass to toast Crowley. He gives the demon a pointed look and grins, “No. You don’t.”


End file.
